Jump
by silver-nightstorm
Summary: Thinking things through? Ha. That's very funny. Keep in mind; this is me we're talking about. Rated for language. Won District 14's July monthly prompt challenge. Prompt 'Nineteen'.


I don't know what it is about D14's monthly prompts, but I always seem to write them in strange places. I wrote the first one in Venice; I wrote the first bit of this one with my two year-old cousin wresting me for my blankie (_It's my blankie! Mine! Don't touch it!_) in Maryland. -nods- Well, I hope you guys like it anyway XD

Written for _District 14_'s second monthly prompt, _'Nineteen'_.

**Jump**

**By silver-nightstorm**

**Summary:** Thinking things through? Ha. That's very funny. Keep in mind; this is _me_ we're talking about.

XX

"This year, to remind the Districts that they are _never_ safe, adults nineteen years and older will be reaped into the arena."

"… to remind the Districts that they are _never_ safe, adults nineteen years and older will be reaped…"

"… they are _never_ safe, adults nineteen years and older…"

"… they are _never_ safe…"

"… _never_ safe…"

"_NEVER_."

XX

Safety is an illusion. It's a beautiful lie created to help children sleep at night, to keep one from constantly glancing over one's shoulder. It's a state of mind that is always desired but is never actually _real_. Safety is what we all want and what we'll never get. Not in Panem. Not anywhere.

My friends held the false assumption that once they were nineteen, things would be better, things would be different. Life was supposedly _good_ once you were nineteen – you weren't in the reapings anymore, you had a chance to advance your career, find love, start a family, live the way you want to. All of that was false. People thought they were safe once they were nineteen. This year, this Quell, this _horror_, taught us differently.

The Capitol wanted us to think we were safe. They wanted to lull us into their false security; they wanted us to believe that things would actually _be okay_. Hmph. That's a lie. A big, fat, dirty, blatant, _beautiful_ lie.

XX

When I stood in the square that day, I could see every person around me mentally calculating their odds. We of Five love our numbers. We love our algorithms, statistics, and sinusoidal curves. While the majority of Panem shrunk away from the thought of numbers, functions and calculations were a source of comfort and familiarity for Fives.

My calculations made me feel slightly better – if I was still in the normal Reaping, going to the Games was of a higher likelihood. Since everyone above the age of nineteen was in the mixing pot, the number of times I probably wouldn't be called was exponentially higher. At least that was what I thought. My name was the first pulled out of the damned goldfish bowl.

Fuck numbers and algorithms and statistics and sinusoidal curves and functions and calculations. Fuck them all.

XX

The Capitol was so shiny, it was mildly ridiculous. For every bit of despair, desolation, depravity, and darkness in the Districts, the Capitol was… shiny. For the first day there, I could hardly open my eyes to look at the surroundings; everything was so pristine, so clean, and the people were so… _colorful_.

But after I saw the way they _celebrated_ the Games, I could look at them. Their city was clean, but they were filthy.

XX

My district partner was old. The majority of those reaped were. The woman from Eleven was pregnant, the man from three had horrible arthritis. The tributes from 1, 2, and 4 were old as well. But they were fit. Unlike the most of us.

Maybe it's unfair to say my district partner was _old_. He wasn't, not really. Not compared to everyone else. To me he was. He was thirty-one years old, and his name was Sigmund. He was my boss. Erm… _former_ boss. And to think, I was cursing him a few days ago for working me overtime. I really shouldn't have done that.

Fate: 1. Me: …

XX

Every day, I calculated my odds. I factored in everything I knew about the other tributes _(11F, 23, pregnant, moody, loud, physically weak, not very bright, likely outcome – bloodbath: 3M, 74, arthritis, favors left leg, physically weak, very bright, likely outcome – bloodbath; 5M, 31, minor heart problems, physically strong, very bright, likely outcome – survives bloodbath, with luck, top 10)_ and myself _(5F, 19, knee problems, physically weak, low stamina, slow runner, very bright, very unlucky, likely outcome – bloodbath)_ to come to a conclusion. I wouldn't survive. It was impossible. Erm, _improbable_. But in the world of The Hunger Games, improbable _was_ impossible.

In the arena, there were too many unknowns. There were too many variables. There were too many ways I could die. It could be quiet, like a snake bite _(likeliness – 0.5%)_ or it could be dramatic, like a fire or a face off with another tribute _(likeliness – 99.5%)_. It could be quick _(likeliness – 17%)_ or slow, painful, and gruesome _(likeliness – 83%)_. According to my calculations, I would suffer a dramatic, slow, painful, and gruesome death in the arena.

Or I could jump.

XX

Thinking things through? Ha. That's very funny. Keep in mind; this is _me_ we're talking about. I calculated. I calculated again. And I calculated once more, just incase, over and over and over and over until my mind was nothing but stream of numbers and a whirlwind of charts, graphs, statistics, and 'What if?'s. I always ended up with the same result.

_Possibility of Survival – 0.03%_

Making the decision was simple, after that. I could suffer, I could hope, I could try, and I could fail. Or I could jump.

Ultimately, no one would blame me. They would just think I was a poor, panicked little girl who was unfortunate enough to be sentenced for death. And if they did know my thought process – like most Fives would – they would understand. As a self-respecting Five, they would have done the same with my odds.

_May the odds be ever in your favor._

XX

I rose through the tube. The sun blinded me. Before I could think, I was already moving. Explosions. Flames.

And for a fraction of a second, I wondered. Why did I jump?

XX

Velocity Ware was nineteen years old when she died in the Hunger Games.

Velocity Ware would have been nineteen years old when she won the Hunger Games. Shame. _0.03%_ is not _0%_. She just neglected that one, tiny, almost insignificant fact.

Improbable is not impossible.

**XX**

Well, I remembered a debate on plate jumping going on, so I thought I'd write a fic about it XD Please review~


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